


Follow The Heron Home

by sevensilvermagpies



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb Widogast Deserves Nice Things, Comfort, Gen, Winter Walks, domestic peacefulness, just pure soft comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensilvermagpies/pseuds/sevensilvermagpies
Summary: A walk home on a quiet winter evening leaves Caleb feeling at peace.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Follow The Heron Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one fell swoop and delivered to you, fresh and organic (and unedited).

_"In darkness we cradled our sorrow,_  
_And stoked all our fires with fear,_  
_Now these bones that lie empty and hollow,_  
_Are ready for gladness to cheer"_

_\- Karine Polwart, Follow The Heron_

The damp heaviness of November dusk dragged the sun slowly but steadily below the horizon, sending a last desperate shot of orange light bouncing out across the steady water of the river. Somewhere across the bridge there is singing; a lark song springing forth from human form, skipping along the edge of the towpath. A risked glance shows a flash of pink and blue, bright against the dark of the grass and gravel. The notes are plucked out of hearing and whisked off into the night breeze, fading out into the hum of the city, just barely audible beyond the huff of breath and soft panting of passing runners.

It looks much later than it must be the librarian kicking the last student stragglers out at the same time it has closed every night for the past 5 years. He supposes that’s what you get for using the public library instead of the one on campus – but change is good for you every so often Nott always says, even if that change happens regular as clockwork every Wednesday and Saturday, 10 – 6.

The cold night air has not driven everyone from the streets, as much as he would wish it. Passing the familiar cacophony of the skatepark breaks the meditative pacing of his thoughts, thumping music coming from a very small speaker next to a very tall woman leant against an even larger tree, roots tunnelling stubbornly through the concrete. She is striking, a dark silhouette under fluorescent street lights, patterned in black and white like she could slink back into the shadows that flicker around the edge of the concrete. Despite the lump of what Caleb can only assume is skating gear against the railing, her bright friend – loud as she is quiet – is dancing nimbly across a slackline stretched between two trees. They step to the music, bouncing up and down softly but deftly, a whirl of red and purple. Walking past the pair of them is almost impossible, magnetic as their energy is, and his steps somehow feel heavier as he leaves the cold light of the lit path behind and begins the scramble down the bank to the canal path proper.

A stay leaf makes its way under his foot somehow and he wobble, arms swinging, before thumping heavily down onto the concrete slabs. The air hangs tense and still for a second, a held breath whilst he rights himself, broken only by the soft reminder of laughter from far behind that Caleb prays isn’t at his masterful descent. The quiet down here by the water wraps itself around him in a familiar velvet cloak. Again he is alone with only the rhythmic shush of lapping ripples against the banks. If it were warmer he would stay down here, lulled into a trance, but the wind has whipped itself up into an angry, biting state, and he has no intention of being home any later than necessary lest his dinner portion is eaten for him.

The pace of his steps is brisk and strong, striding past the night-time stragglers: a runner in blue so deep he almost doesn’t notice her approach until she swear at him to get out of her way, and whose choice outfit of shorts and no sleeves only serves to make him shiver harder, burrowing down into his scarf like a turtle. As she passes she swerves around a lone rower, desperately trying to tug his boat back up onto dry land, swearing at him too. Caleb keeps his eyes cast to the floor, only peeking up enough to see a clear path wishing, not for the first time, that he had followed Nott’s advice of bringing headphones to better avoid the attention of people. The voice of the rower is deep, somewhat cartoonish American as he gives back to the runner as good a barrage of insults as he got, dropping stern of the boat slipping from his hands as he gesticulates after her. The soft almost-swear afterwards forces Caleb to swallow back a laugh, at the man tilts precariously close to the water to rescue his raft.

Up above the bridge pass swallows light like a hungry maw, thundering rattle of the train above echoing around like a rumbling purr. The ground here is wetter, squelching unpleasantly under his feet, threating to sink through the patched leather of his boots cause sensory havoc. The guiding light of the street-lamps beckons from the other side, pathway spitting him out onto the main road. Harsh squeal of tires on wet tarmac near smacks him across the fence as he ventures into the light. The shop window of the Blooming Grove is dark, it is only his perfect memory which provides the image of swirling lettering against the glass panes and soft pattern of greens behind. Again the wind picks up, fat droplets landing on his head and reminding him that his hat is still somewhere in the pile of laundry Frumpkin has claimed as his throne. The rhythm of steps picks up until it’s the soft patter of a run and Caleb is bolting for the worn wood door as the clouds decide to make good on Jester’s promise to force him to shower more regularly and empty themselves into the cool night air.

The key jams as it always does, and the almighty thudding racket of him forcing the door open is all the alert his housemate needs of his return, hurtling down the stairs to pull him bodily inside. His hair is wet and his ears are ringing but his heart glows with warmth as she pulls a chair out from the table to clamber on and begin tugging him out of his coat and into a thick jumper. He follows her mutters screeching about how she knew the weather would turn into the kitchen as Frumpkin, beautiful, soft Frumpkin, turns himself into a trip hazard winding around their feet.

Soap is added to the mental shopping list ticking over in the back corner of his brain as he scrubs the days breadcrumbs and ink out of his hands, right underneath the note for more cat food and the specific type of energy drink that doesn’t send Nott crashing immediately after drinking that they ran out of yesterday. The soft motion of hand over hand is soothing, as is the warmth of the hoodie he’s pretty sure they didn’t own yesterday, and the sound of Nott’s frustration with the job centre pouring out of her deceptively small form. Comfort swirls around the both of them, and settles in for dinner, and Caleb can’t help but smile in response.

It is an unexpected but much welcomed guest.

**Author's Note:**

> Took one look at Mr Widogast and went "thats my boy!!"  
> Anyway I've watched about 13 episodes, read all the spoilers, and I'm ready to write fic.


End file.
